POTOpt3, Pretense
by kennahuliagulia
Summary: all chapters can now be found off of part 1...Part3 of my POTO continuance. Christine has left Paris behind, along with Erik and now Raoul, but will Erik give up...? Can her "mistakes" really STAY in the past? PLEASE READ & REVIEW.


**A/N: **Please read part 1 & part 2 first (or else you'll be TOTALLY lost, I guarantee it)! So, here it is, part 3 of my Phantom of the Opera continuance…alternate ending, thing, sequel, whatever…

Christine rehearsed like mad. Nadia did not make it any easier, and she had not seen Amon anywhere in days. That child loved to disappear.

Odessa was kind enough, Liev acted as if he was only tolerating her, and Sir Kendall, the British owner of the Opera House, seemed delighted just to see a new face.

Christine had heard from Odessa that Amon had been homeless, before Kendall found him and asked him to come be, basically, a servant here. He had been kicked out of his parent's home because he "was not fond of females." This was something new to Christine. She had never met anyone…like…well, like _that. _Like him. The poor boy. Ostracized and turned out on his own by his own parents who could not accept him for who he was. Christine pitied him, but it pained her to think of him as rejected by those who should have loved him; sadly, not for the boys' sake, but because it so reminded her of someone else.

The opera they were rehearsing for was an old and famous one. Christine played a nurse, who had several solos. Christine was happy. She was not ecstatic, she could not say she was fully 'enjoying herself,' but she was happier than she'd been in a long, long time.

One night, as she was preparing for bed, Christine was gazing out of her window as she was getting into the habit of doing quite often. It was something she could honestly say she _did _enjoy—looking at her new surroundings, trying to make herself familiar with an alien place. She sighed, looking down at the empty streets, lit up by the street lamps that no one had yet put out. Christine gathered up her skirts and started getting into bed, glancing to the outside world once more, when something caught her eye. A flash of white—a face.

She held her breath. _Could it be? _No, no, she was hallucinating.

A man. In a mask. A _man _in a _mask _was standing in the lightly falling snow, staring at the building. Not at her. Not at anything, anyone. Just staring, and looking completely broken.

"It's not him," Christine assured herself out loud. "He's in Paris. You're seeing things."

And sure enough, as soon as she looked out to the streets once more, he was gone.

Erik began renovations immediately after buying the dilapidated and run-down former House of Music. He would be the Phantom of the Opera once more. But this time, he would be fully in control. No one could keep him from his purpose here.

Opening night of the Opera Christine was starring in, Erik got himself a seat in the very back row. He snuck in, of course—he could not be seen paying. He might've hidden somewhere secret, in fact, he knew he would've, but he did not know his way around here, and he doubted there were any secret places _here. _It was not exactly the most original of buildings.

His entire face was hidden now, in a full mask. He was sure papers would be speaking about the mysterious unknown man who had wrecked the famous chandelier in the Opera Populaire; he knew people were talking about him, he knew he was already becoming a legend. This might've pleased him, once. Being known to exist by so many, being _feared _by so many. But now, he hardly gave it a second thought.

He had no desire to watch this drama; he did not care about the plot or the characters, even as a writer himself. He left after her first solo.

He only wanted to hear her voice. To be sure she was alright. He only wanted to be reminded of her; to be assured that she was real. She was so perfect, to him, at least, that it seemed quite plausible to have dreamed her. And after so long being without her, he was beginning to doubt his sanity, and wondering if she was just a cruel trick his mind was playing on him, a joke to humor his deepest wishes. But seeing her, _hearing _her, he knew—she was entirely real, and he had truly found her.

Almost instantaneously after that first performance in New York, Christine was a star. And the subject of chatter all around the city.

Christine knew people just needed something new & fresh to gabber about, but it was slightly gratifying all the same. People were recognizing her as a talent! People here did not know her past; people here did not judge her for her time as a chorus girl; people _here _would not think of her as the girl who had been last scene on a stage falling into a pit of fire with someone seen as a criminal by the general public.

"It's amazing!" One person said. "She's so…strong. So unaffected, even around that horrible Nadia."

Another person commented, "It's sort of eerie. She doesn't seem to have much emotion, especially in her eyes. She never seems to _relax!_"

But they all agreed on one thing. "That **voice! **I swear to you, it's heaven-sent."

To them, she seemed like an angel. Her sudden appearance, out of nowhere, and then that astounding, celestial beauty and stunning voice.

No one had seen her in Paris. No one knew of her past. All they knew about her was that she was a beautiful, talented young girl, who seemed to be as hard as a brick. Anyone who called her _soft _was sorely mistaken, at least, according to anyone who had watched her here.

But they loved her. There was no doubt about that. It didn't matter that her eyes were vacant; her smile was clearly fake. She was splendid and incredibly…_sensational. _So what if she was never wistful, or open? It was clear to them that she was simply _never vulnerable. _And as long as her voice stayed as stunning and striking as it was now, well…that was good enough for the customers of the Opera. After all, they were not interested in any possibly _boring _personal problems. They were perfectly happy to just listen & watch and assume all was well, and leave the rest up to imagination.

Within weeks, the House Erik had bought and fixed up was changed from 'out of order' to a sparkling, wondrous and appealing Opera. The Phantom's plan was in motion. The man he had originally hired now helped him set up interviews with directors and managers and possible cast members. It was only to be the best of everything: except singers. That he would leave open. The script was already set.

After only several _more _weeks, Erik's Opera—Opera Ambrose—was ready to run.

He had written his newest Opera. The dancers were trained; the director and manager were skilled with their work; only one element was missing. The female star.

A man had been cast, Sorrin, the Scandinavian, to play the lead male part. But the woman, to play his opposite, was left uncast.

The director and manager, as well as several other people from Opera Ambrose, began to write to Christine. She was now insanely famous, and all-the-rage. She had sung at several other Operas besides Kendall's, but still called Kendall's her home. But her luck was running out there. Nadia was becoming increasingly vicious and Christine's patience was wearing out. Her roles at Kendall's were getting thinner and duller, and, frankly, they were boring her. In total, now, it had been more than a year since she had come to New York. She was not yet entirely comfortable, and already becoming fed up with her life here.

But, as soon as Christine read the summary of Opera Ambrose's opening night's performance, she was thrilled. Something new, unlike her typical, fading characters elsewhere.

The premise was that of two dying, complicated lovers, separated, and the near-finale scene, which also introduced the male lover for the first time, was set in heaven. Before that, the woman had just sung of him. There had only been memories; flashbacks, where younger versions of the two characters acted behind a screen to make the illusion of a dream.

This role as actually something Christine looked forward to. For the first time since she had moved here, she was _excited _about something. She was now full of joy, though still somewhat stoic.

So she joined Opera Ambrose at once, never inquiring after the author of the opera. The director, Gregorio, also posed to be the owner. Christine had no reason to doubt it.

She practiced and practiced. She was preparing more than she'd ever prepared, getting everything down perfectly. She knew her songs. She knew her lines. She knew her dance moves. She knew the drill. She had fallen in love with this drama.

In rehearsals, they continued to pound every bit and detail into her brain. She memorized Odessa's reminders. Her coaching. Odessa had also come, occasionally, to help the first-timer who occupied Odessa's title at the Ambrose. She served as a tutor for the newcomer."Alright, heaven scene, everyone," Odessa would shout. "Now, remember, Christine. Just as the curtain draws, keep your face just one inch from his. Lead the audience to believe that you kissed. Keep the two of you on their minds—leave them wondering and wishing they had seen more." Christine had had to do this before. She was happy—she'd never kissed anyone onstage before, and she didn't particularly want to now.

But on opening night, a disaster occurred. Sorrin had broken his knee. He could not move, much less walk—he could not _perform. _

"Do not worry, my dear," Gregorio patted Christine on the shoulder as she felt nauseous. "His understudy knows the part well."

"Where is he?" She asked anxiously.

"He's here. Relax, darling." Gregorio cooed. Christine nodded, reassured.

"May I meet him?" She asked.

"There's no need, Christine," Gregorio continued. "He's ready, you're ready. Plus, there isn't enough time. Sorrin didn't exactly leave us leisure time, this was not planned, it's almost to curtain! You'll play the parts fabulously. No worries. He enters at the heaven scene, just as Sorrin always did."

Christine smiled tiredly, and went out onto the stage, staring at the dark purple curtains as they lifted up to reveal the opening act.

And it did work. It worked splendidly. The entire crowd was ecstatic. And many swore, and promised, to come back the next night. The understudy had indeed done well—he had been a bit jittery and much less confident in the role, but he had pulled it off. They had succeeded.

But then yet _another _disaster. The understudy got food poisoning the next night—now, both Sorrin _and _the backup could not act.

Gregorio once more assured her there was a plan. Plan C. Apparently, in Manhattan, even understudies had understudies. _Preparing for the worst, eh? _Christine thought.

"Don't fret, love," Gregorio patted her on the head. "Just do as you did last night. All will go according to plan."

Watching from the wings on opening night, Erik's heart was in palpitations. His head felt as if it would explode.

God, all the things he needed to say to her.

Most of all, _Thank you._

She had given him a life he'd never known, full of love and companionship. She might not have intended to change him so much, she might not have clear-headedly made the decision to help, but the important thing was that she had. She had given him so much.

Even if it was short-lived. Even if it didn't last very long.

She had personally removed him from his hell. She had taken away those feelings of rejection and hate, with just one kiss. He hungered for her. He needed to taste her one more time.

He needed to smell her. He needed to _feel _her. He needed _her. _

It would be an overstatement to say all of his fury and rage that had accumulated over his lifespan had dissolved when her lips touched his. It was an impossibility to forget all of that.

But that was why he loved her most. She made him feel as if he could.

As if it wasn't so impossible after all. As if nothing was.

Christine's times with Raoul had felt so brilliantly real. They'd felt like a summer breeze, like the sun on her face.

Her times with the Phantom had been like a marvelously intense dream—like a rainstorm, when the world echoed all around her from the force of the booming thunder. And, at the time, she'd been ashamed—because it was like a dream from which she never wanted to wake up. She knew she _should _want to wake up, she knew it was partially a nightmare, and nightmares are not meant to be enjoyed—it would be masochistic to do so and therefore mostly seen as wrong. Yet a deeper, darker part of her reveled in these dreams which were seemingly nightmares; most would consider them so, but she did not, _could _not. It was more like…something she knew she couldn't have and, even more, knew she shouldn't even _want, _yet she did. So much. In a way, he was the forbidden fruit, the treasure just beyond reach—and she'd reached for him, she'd plucked him from that tree and tasted that evil and found herself enjoying it. This is what shamed her. That she had _liked _that which she should've despised; that she liked _him._

She had loved him with parts of her mind, body, & soul she'd never known she'd had.

Yes, her heart belonged to Raoul. Simply put.

But…something _else _belonged to her Erik. It was more than that. As if every step she took, every note she sang, she _owed to him. _She owed everything to him. Not only her music or her life as it was now, but her life itself. She knew it was absurd. Yet she couldn't seem to shake the notion that he'd made her what she was, in every sense, way, shape, and form. Not only _music. _No. Everything. It was all because of him.

She _loved _Raoul, more than almost anything, it seemed.

But, for some reason, it seemed unfitting to have Raoul cast in the role as her love. Though she loved him, no matter what, undoubtedly, he had failed her in one way and one way only. So it was _especially _rubbish to think of him as miscast, seeing as the Phantom had failed her so very often, but…she could not deny that Raoul had failed to diminish the doubt life had instilled in her. She had _doubts _around Raoul, yet, never around Erik. This might've been a bad thing to some, the way he made her feel so at ease, thus making her so easy to be taken advantage of, but she could just not see it that way. Yet she did not lie to herself. She knew all of the ways the Phantom had made her someone different, someone she did not recognize for the longest time as herself, and still wondered at the presence of.

Christine had been an innocent. Until she'd met the Phantom. She'd thought it was a dreadful thing, her whole being having been corrupted by one man's presence. But now, she realized it wasn't that that made her afraid of him. She wasn't scared to stay by his side because he was a murderer, or a man possessed by obsession, or because he was so terribly violent. She knew, now, that it was because he brought out a side of her she wished she didn't have. Still, she could not refuse the face it was there—it's presence was undeniable, no matter how much she hated that very fact. And the reason she was _really _frightened was because that made the possibility arise that that side of her, that _dark _side, would take over _all_ of her. That loving him would become the only thing she did, or was capable of. That everything else would disappear, fade into background scenery, and she'd forget the rest of the world even existed at all.

She was afraid she'd come to love him even more than she already did—though that seemed unfeasible. In essence…well…

She was afraid she would love him _too much. _For her own good, or anyone else's.

That was why she had been hesitant.

But her desire was uncontrollable.

He had been right about her.

Passion, lust, fixation…it took over her.

She hated the fact that she would never be able to escape him, or his memory.

He would always be there—she would never be free.

His presence was so intoxicating…she couldn't help developing such a yearning for him.

She had been so moved by his words. She had forgiven him for everything just because of his sorrow. But she knew. She knew he regretted hurting her, if only briefly, and only in the heat of the moment. She had heard him, known his meaning, when he'd sang to her, "Now you cannot ever be free." He had been mad because she had ruined her own life. He had been angry not at her, but at her stupidity—he knew exactly what would happen to her, he had predicted these very moments where she was overtaken by him and he had known she would love him too much for her own sake. She had reached the point of no return. By taking off his mask that night, she had sealed her own irreversible fate, full of thoughts of him and longing _for _him, and the inability to erase him from her mind, memory…heart. She had understood his need for beauty, and she'd understood she'd satisfied that hunger. She'd understood she had provided him that bit of heaven, which he knew was unattainable otherwise.

Oh, God, he'd been so right.

Her fear had turned to love; she'd found the man behind the monster…and no matter how she tried for however long, she would **never** be free.

He truly was a Phantom. For, now, he haunted her, always.

Every time she looked in the mirror, he was there. And she so wished he would come and take her away, back to his home again…what was a dungeon, a prison cell to him, was her idea of a secret, hidden, and masked bit of heaven.

And, still, despite the distance, he still came to her. She dreamt of him, of his voice. His voice continued to call to her. He was luring her to him. And it was literally all she could do to just **barely** resist.

Erik had sung of his increasing power over his gorgeous pupil. And he'd seen in her eyes he'd been right. He took comfort knowing his presence was felt; he had found a home, inside her mind.

Was she his mask?

There was no doubt that their spirits and voices were so deeply connected that no one could ever tear them apart. He longed to have his thoughts confirmed; to know he'd succeeded; to know that whenever she sang, she would feel him. He'd known the day would come when 

they would be separated. And he had wanted her to be able to bask in the awareness of his existence. He never wanted her to have to feel his absence. He had known it was both of their faults that they felt this way, and, now that they did, and that could not be changed, he wanted to save her from what pain he could—he wanted to do all that was possible for himself to do to protect her.

He had offered up his music, as she had offered up her own. His music was the only love he could offer. She had taken it. And oh, he knew what that meant…oh, how he had known…

She'd** returned** the music to him. She had acknowledged, not ignored, his song, and sung it back. She'd reciprocated his feelings, his sentiments.

Neither of them could ever come back from that.

She imagined his face and sang his words to her over and over to herself.

Was it because of him that, now, she cherished the world of night? That she could never defend herself when thinking of him?

That was why she could not think of him at all when she was on stage, or around anyone else, for that matter. Because, if she did, she would become feeble and frail. She hated appearing pathetic, susceptible to the outside world. But he caused her to abandon any attempts to appear strong or guarded. She was quivering as she recalled how easily she'd surrendered. But it had been what she was required to do. Not only by him, but by herself, her own mind. She would not let herself refuse, she would not take no for an answer—she wanted to give herself up to him. She could not evade it, nor did she have any desire to. Around him, she felt as if…as if succumbing to him was her destiny. Her fate. Her doom.

But _could _it be doom? Even if she ached for that 'doom' to approach?

He'd shown her that life she'd shunned because she thought it was what she was supposed to do.

And it panicked her to feel she had made a mistake by doing that. To feel as if _that _life, the life of what she'd always called nightmares, was what she truly sought after; longed for. It was like…like she'd mislabeled it. Misinterpreted it.

So, when she'd felt her mind submitting to him, she'd dreaded the complete overtaking of her senses—at least, she told herself she should dread it—and she'd just narrowly escaped it. Barely.

But what _truly _made her quake until her entire body was shaking was that she'd felt that life, that dark, dismal life, pass—she'd felt it brush her shoulder.

And she'd liked it.

**A/N: **Hope you liked part 3! Keep reading…part 4 is coming!! And please, please, PLEASE give feedback. It's so greatly appreciated! I swear, the reunion is so close you should be TASTING it by now!! And even if I just get ONE review on this...I'll post part 4 :) So please, please review!! And thank you so much to the people who did!


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